


Somewhere to Begin

by MissAtomicBomb (mrs_nerimon)



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Sister-Sister Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-15
Updated: 2019-04-15
Packaged: 2020-01-14 13:31:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18477229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrs_nerimon/pseuds/MissAtomicBomb
Summary: The Stark sisters share a moment in the wake of some impactful reunions.





	Somewhere to Begin

**Author's Note:**

> back at it again. this lil thing ended up being a lot heavier on the stark sisters than a/g, but i'm also trying to massively fill in the gaps, since the show seems to have decided they're just bffs now and there's no more issues just bc they both killed a guy together.

His hair looks stupid.

Arya wants to tell him he shouldn’t have lopped it off, that those dark locks suited him, made him handsome, even. But she thinks on how her body has changed these past five years; the scars littering her skin, the inches she’s gained on him and Jon and Sansa. She’s had to mold her body to become everyone and no one, she shouldn’t be surprised he’s changed too.

She heard Ser Davos say he spent much of the past few years in King’s Landing, hiding right beneath Cersei’s ugly nose. He's had to look different. He’s had to become no one too, she thinks.

There’s a curious feeling in her body as she leaves the forge, a fluttering deep inside her gut. She’s felt it over and over since she got back to Winterfell; it’s the feeling of home, of reunions. Of a skinny girl with bruises on her knees running through the courtyard, her wolf nipping at her heels.

But this time it’s something else, too. Similar to the emotion that rushed through her blood as she felt Jon’s arms around her for the first time in seven years. That relief, that happiness. Like she thought she’d never feel again.

Only it’s still a little different, more centralized near her chest. It’s the same way Gendry used to make her feel at Harrenhal, when he would strip off his shirt in the mid afternoon heat, chest shining and darkened with soot. She was too young to pinpoint what that feeling was back then, but she knows it now, beating a steady rhythm through her body. He looks different, older, more worn. But _good_ , and her heart thrums again as she thinks of how he told her the same. The pause in his voice before the word escaped, the funny way his eyes flitted around, like he wasn't even sure where to look.

She’s being stupid, now. There is an army of the dead marching for her home, and she’s thinking on a boy, of the way his gazed raked over her form, for once making her glad she has a woman’s figure. How very Sansa of her.

“Arya?”

Seven hells. Her sister must be able to read her thoughts, as she crosses the yard towards her now, tall figure standing stark against the snow covered wagons.

“Lady Stark.” She nods towards the other woman, and Sansa rolls her eyes, a childish move that reminds Arya of herself.

“Don’t tease me,” she instructs, sounding every bit the Lady of Winterfell even without trying.

Arya clasps her hands behind her back. She and Sansa may be on the same page now, but sometimes their interactions can still feel performative. Subservient. Sansa expects her to play the role of a dutiful soldier, and she’ll comply.

“What are you smiling about?” Her sister sidles up to her, her furs brushing Arya’s shoulder.

Arya wasn't expecting that question. “What?” She blurts out quickly, and Sansa gives her a tight lipped smile, her eyes glinting in the morning sun.

“You’re standing out here grinning at nothing.” She sounds amused, but there’s no malice in her voice. She’s not the bratty girl who used to belittle her sister, she’s genuinely interested in what she’s thinking about. It’s still strange to get used to.

“I, uh-“ she wants to be embarrassed she was smiling like a fool, but she thinks again on Gendry’s wide eyes, his grin as they joked together once again, the familiarity it brought. _Milady_. She’s earned the right to be glad her friend is back, hasn’t she? They all have the right to these small comforts now, while they still have time.

“I just saw an old friend.” Truthfully, it feels almost like a lie as she says it. Because while Gendry was her friend, her _truest_ friend during those years, he was something a little different, too. Not a brother, not Jon or Bran. He cared for her not because she was his lord's daughter, or a hostage he needed to keep alive, or an apprentice he could train. Simply because she was Arya and he was Gendry and they knew each other, unlike anyone else.

She can't put any of that into words, no more than she can give a name to the soaring in her chest as she glances back towards the forge, where she knows he's sure to be hard at work on her request already. Putting his everything into his work, because that's just who he is.

Sansa’s smile grows.

“It’s wonderful to be back with everyone, isn’t it? Jon and Bran, you and I.” She loops her arm through Arya’s, the way she and Jeyne Poole used to walk through Winterfell. Arya had never been invited to join them, back then.

Arya nods stiffly. Sansa pulls her in a little tighter, a wordless reassurance.

“I’m glad to see you smiling,” she confides softly, her voice lowering for just the two of them. “It’s been rare lately.”

She could say the same for her sister, whose smiles have fallen far and few between in the days leading up to Jon and Daenerys’ return. Briefly, she wonders if there is a new arrival at Winterfell that would make Sansa’s chest squeeze the way Gendry’s did for her. She’s somewhat surprised to find she truly wants to know the answer, that she wants to see her sister happy.

“Who is your friend?” Sansa presses on, an innocent enough question, but one that makes Arya’s mood fall suddenly.

 _A bastard blacksmith. A lowborn boy. Someone I used to love. My old pack._ There’s a hundred answers, but none appropriate for _Lady Arya Stark_. None she can tell to the proper mistress of Winterfell.

“I’m sure you’ll see him later,” she says instead, and Sansa hums gently.

“ _Him_ ,” she repeats, her secret smile growing. “My wild sister, finally tamed by a handsome knight?”

Arya wonders if Sansa can still believe in fantasies of knights and ladies and love stories, after all that’s happened to her. After all they’ve both seen, how can the songs still seem true?

But she would be cruel to ruin her sister’s illusion, so she only shrugs. If the songs still make Sansa feel better, she knows better than to take that from her.

“Perhaps.”

Sansa squeezes her arm tighter, letting out a little chuckle.

“Jon isn’t due back until later,” she starts out across the courtyard, pulling Arya to walk alongside her. “How about you join me for tea? I would love to hear more about your old friend.”

A smile tugs at her lips once more. "I'd like that," she says, and she's surprised to find she truly does mean it.


End file.
